


I've been drinking, I've been thinking

by BirdLittle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Broken Bones, Bruises, Confusion, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hangover, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury, M/M, Morning After, Not Beta Read, POV Multiple, POV Peter Parker, POV Quentin Beck, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene, Slow To Update, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator, but not actually (yet), eventually, not much but still
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdLittle/pseuds/BirdLittle
Summary: And then Beck went to sit up. And his left hand got caught… on something warm? On something human?No fucking way.Not him. Not Peter.The kid is here, in his bedroom, in his goddam bed, and asleep of all things. And oh no, last night, did they— What did they do?
Relationships: Quentin Beck & Peter Parker, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	I've been drinking, I've been thinking

**Author's Note:**

> look at me starting yet another fic and still have about five other WIPs
> 
> (song inspo was 'Drunk in Love' by Beyonce)

His head hurt. That’s how much Beck knew for sure.

It really, _really_ fucking hurt. A low hum of constant pain, never changing, never ceasing. Like a bunch of cotton balls were smashed into his brain with a hammer. Somehow, Quentin was not surprised. Shifting just a bit also taught him that most of his body ached too, and he was rather exhausted for someone who just woke up, stomach twisting with nausea.

Didn’t he drink last night? Or at least that’s where the memories seemed to start getting muddled. Or straight-up disappearing.

So, it’s a hangover, great. Old habits _don’t_ die hard it seems.

Aside from pain, Quentin could guess that it was a soft pillow under his cheek, and warm sheets under his body, and what felt like a thick fluffy blanket covering most of his torso. So, he was in a bed. Lying sprawled out on his stomach, arms and legs in every direction. Okay, Quentin’s woken up with worse, a bed was fine. Quite good actually; sleeping anywhere else in his 30s was a recipe for pain.

He was hangover. In a bed. Fuck, _whose_ bed?

On instinct, Quentin blindly reached out right, and with immense relief, felt the familiar wooden surface, with its digital clock and very expensive side lamp on top. The one that looked like a bunch of aliens from Alien crawling up. His lamp, it’s his bedside table, his bed. Oh, thank god.

Quentin flipped his head over to look right and instantly winced. Groaning, he carefully pushed his head down into the pillow, slowly adjusting to the pain. Never mind the worsening headache, but his cheek also stung. Actually, his face in general kinda stung. His lips felt dried out, nose hurting as he tried to sniff. Did he fall? Or get in another fight? Honestly, given his track record, it could be either.

Once both the headache and stinging subdued a little, Quentin squinted open an eye, thankful for his very dark bedroom. 11:38 AM. _Fuck_. Seems like it was quite the night. Too bad he barely remembered any of it.

And then Beck went to sit up. And his left hand got caught… on something warm? On something… human? And something that _moved?_

Oh. _Oh_. Okay then, seems like it was _quite_ the night indeed.

Quentin decided not to move so hastily then. His head hurt anyway, that was the main reason. Sure, he was thirsty as hell, and the copper taste in his mouth was rather uncomfortable, but maybe for a few minutes, he can let his one-night stand rest a little longer. If his hand was resting where he thought it was, then maybe this person was male. Or had a male chest anyway. Yeah, who knows their gender, Beck sure didn’t right now, but he’s slept with a variety of people in his youth, who cares. They could talk over their late breakfast.

They’d probably have to reconstruct the entire night together actually, as it was not coming to him in easy pieces. He went to drink, and he met many people it seemed, but then why does he feel like he walked home alone then? Where did he pick up his current bedfellow?

Just as he felt like turning back to look at them, the person in question, suddenly took a deep breath, Quentin’s arm rising with their chest, and moved. Under the blankets, their legs bumped into Beck’s, the man tensing at the contact, long limbs dragging the blankets, and entire body turning. Still asleep. Felt like they turned away.

With only a bit of struggle, Quentin turned his head around and sneaked a peak.

While Quentin lay on his stomach, left arm sprawled out over his partner, the… _male_ he hazardously guessed, had just rolled away and almost onto his stomach, facing the large wall-sized window, away from Beck. So much for seeing who it was, although given Quentin’s one-night stand record, probably a stranger. The man was smaller, maybe even younger than Beck, with curly soft hair, looking like it was made to be pulled —

_— he yanked at the boy’s curls, the latter gasping, teeth biting into his lip, a shaky hand coming up to gently grab Quentin’s, the other hand fisted in Quentin’s clothes —_

Huh, so he did pull it.

Quentin’s eyes roamed what little else he could see. Slim yet muscular build, supposedly young. Soft smooth skin. He could see why he would bring someone like that home. Definitely his type.

Ever since London he’d barely gone out like this, and he may not remember much, but damn, it definitely had its perks. Next time he could even try to be a tiny fraction more sober. Or maybe it was the fact that they were both blackout drunks that got them into the same bed in the first place. If so, Beck prayed to God, that at least one of them had enough sobriety to use a condom.

But alas, Quentin could not lounge around in bed all day. Sunday or not, he always had plans. Now more than ever, he had a life to rebuild.

Aside from work or seeking out more clues, he also had a guest to take care of now. Fucking perfect. So, water for both of them. A simple breakfast. Maybe something for sore muscles.

Quentin slowly took out his hand from where it rested on the guy’s chest, untangling it from under the other’s arm in the process. He held his breath when the latter moved and watched as the young man scrambled around for the blanket, before dragging it further over himself and resuming his slumber. Hm, kinda cute.

Crawling onto his elbows, Quentin managed to drag his body to sit upright on the edge of the bed, surprised to see himself still in both underwear and black jeans. His head meanwhile instantly disagreed with his actions, but who was in control here? Shut up brain. He _could_ sit upright, and he _could_ stand up without falling over. He only grabbed the wall once he entered the en suite, but only because there was a step, not because he felt like shit and wanted to fall over.

Oh, but no. No, no, no. _Fuck_. He definitely _looked_ like shit.

His right cheekbone and eyebrow were painted purple, a cut on his lip, dried blood still lingering. Quentin stretched his jaw, and almost yelled, hand coming up to cradle his face, eyes instantly watering. Okay, so maybe something was broken. Not good. Not good at all.

_— the fist came down once, twice, the third much weaker, the fourth barely a hit —_

Hm, yeah, ouch.

And then there were the _other_ bruises. Red splotches on his stomach quickly explained why he was so fucking sore, fingerprints on his shoulder, like someone had dug in, and a handprint on his throat. Either he got into a fight while completely shit-faced, hence losing because he could fight alright? Or he and the other guy got into some real freaky shit last night. Not that he didn’t mind a little choking but… it looked rather aggressive.

The bathroom itself was also a mess. A few bottles were knocked over, the rug straight up disappeared somewhere, replaced by a soaked bundle of bright red and black clothes. Didn’t seem like his clothes, so Quentin assumed it was the other guy. He stepped over it, not wanting to have wet feet on top of everything else, but not before sparing a thought to how familiar the fabric looked. Might be a popular brand.

Downing two cups of water and struggling to drink in a way that would not aggravate his new injuries, cheekbone in particular, Quentin pointedly ignored what looked like a dark finger smudge by the cabinet handle. The third cup he gave up drinking and opted to save for his temporary new friend. If Quentin looked bad, the other guy maybe did too. Even if Quentin didn’t see any bruises whatsoever.

Once again, maybe some real freaky shit, or maybe because _Quentin_ was the one who ended up in a fistfight. He absently touched his face again, and he was no medical expert, but his nose hurt a little too much for it to be normal, and it should be not that painful to open his jaw. Yeah, he needs the first aid kit.

Quentin wobbled out of the bathroom feeling worse than when he walked in, and frankly more confused than before. His companion still lay asleep, facing away, blankets curled up even more around his small figure. The bed itself was actually fairly clean, _surprisingly_ , but the rest of the room though wasn’t so lucky. The walk-in closet door was flung open, some clothes lying on the floor inside, a chair knocked over and any papers that were once _on_ the desk before were definitely the ones currently thrown into the bin. His old blueprints. Not that he meant to keep them, that fiasco was over, but it was nostalgic. Guess drunk Beck disagreed.

Quentin wobbled over to where a stray sheet had flown over to the bed. The sheet of paper showed a sketch of the first elemental he ever drew. Think of it like… concept art, it was the first idea Quentin had. Much more cartoony and childish than the final render. A little scribble, ‘earth monster’, was on the bottom, right where a red fingerprint now--

The red what now?

Almost identical to where Quentin held the paper, there was a red print. A thumb. And other fingers on the back. Someone held it. Someone held it with their hands covered in blood.

Quentin dropped the paper instantly, eyes scrambling around for a moment, and recognising his own shirt from last night, laying crumpled and discarded, right next to him. Stained and filthy, and crispy dried and red and… that was more blood. Shit.

Okay so maybe Beck really did do something really bad last night. Sure, he had a cut and copper taste in his mouth, but that was _a lot_ of blood on his shirt. And his jeans actually were no better now that he took time to look.

Sobering up in a panic, Quentin stood up too fast for his own good.

What. Happened.

“The hell…?” Well, he had someone to ask at least.

Slowly, as if he might scare away him, Quentin walked around the bed. His companion lay on his stomach, head buried in a pillow, one hand hugging it too. But just as Quentin stepped closer, leaned in, suddenly a face all too familiar peaked out from under the covers. A bucket of ice was tipped over Quentin’s head, and the world seemed to tilt as he stumbled back.

No.

No fucking way.

Not _him_. Not P—

What does he do. Oh god, what does he do? The _kid_ is here, in his bedroom, in his goddam _bed_ , and _asleep_ of all things. And oh no, last night, did they— Or was the fight— Which one? What did they do?

In a blind panic, Quentin crept up to the nightstand, the second one by the kid’s side. His mind was not functioning, or Quentin would have realised what a dumb thing he was planning on doing. Bottom draw, left corner, a bottle of chloroform. And some shirt he shoved in there long ago, perfect. As silently as he could, Quentin poured a controlled amount out, all the while hoping the young hero in his bed wouldn’t wake up to the loud of his thundering heartbeat.

Why was he even doing this? To avoid confrontation? Deal with it later? Tie the boy up just in case and try talking? To avoid pulling out the 9 mm in his other drawer?

Beck leaned over the small figure. Grabbing the boy’s arm, he brought the cloth closer. Just a few minutes of him breathing the fumes should be enough.

——

And then everything became a blur.

Quentin came to lying on his front, again, on his bed, pinned and held down, his left arm twisted up and behind him, another hand on his head, pushing his hurting face into the mattress. A body straddled his, sitting on his back, and oh boy there was no enough clothes on either of them for this. He bit down the moan that threatened to crawl out; cuts and bruises, but also the ever-worsening headache from being flung around like that. When Quentin meekly tried flailing around, whoever held his poor arm twisted it more, finally forcing a pained gasp.

“Fine, fine, fine, just- shit, okay! Loosen up!” Only once Quentin stopped moving, did the pressure lessened.

‘Whoever held his poor arm’, who is he kidding, it’s _Peter,_ isn’t it? Who else was laying in his bed two seconds ago? And would want to hurt him like so.

He felt the body on top of his shift, and vaguely understood that the kid was leaning down closer, before that same voice that’s been stuck in his head for months, cold as ice, spoke into his ear, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Aha, got it.” Quentin huffed out, unable to lift his head but hoping he’s loud enough for the kid to hear, “Can you please get off now, Peter?”

The boy scrambled off without an answer, but not before roughly throwing Quentin’s arm down, enticing another groan from the man. Christ, he was beaten up enough, he didn’t need a broken arm on top of everything else.

By the time Quentin could even sit up, Peter was already walking away. He only caught a glimpse of the boy’s back, dressed in nothing but boxers, before Peter disappeared into the en suite. Frankly, Quentin didn’t have enough time to question how Peter knew which one was the bathroom and which the wardrobe, and instead focussed on scrambling after the kid. To see him? Talk to him? For fuck’s sake why was Peter even here?

When Quentin stepped through the door, he was met with Peter’s backside as the latter leaned over and picked up that pile of red and black. A suit. The _Spider-Man_ suit. The same one as seven months ago in London, no Quentin didn’t keep count. Guess Peter repaired the burns and tears.

“What?” Peter spat out.

Quentin’s head snapped up from where he stared at the piece of clothing, to see Peter glaring at him, and hugging the suit to cover at least some of his body, ear tips tinted just a touch.

“I- No, um—” He was at a loss for words. Truly. The same guy that could write a monologue in five minutes had no idea where to even begin now. “You-You're here.”

Peter nodded, blindly reaching over to open a cabinet. Quentin let him. Somehow the first aid kit was there, not in the closet by the kitchen.

“Why?”

“What _’why’?_ ” Peter sneered back.

“What happened?” Quentin stepped into the en suite, slowly walking closer, “Why are you here? *How? Just— _why?_ ”

Peter took half a step back, maybe without even realising, but that didn’t fault his cold tone, “Jesus, you really were wasted.”

Quentin nodded. His lingering headache and heavy limbs were a subtle yet constant reminder of that.

Peter tsked and went back to his task.

He popped the kit open, and Quentin quickly noticed the disarray in items; bandages, needles and plasters all muddled up, unlike the usual. He watched as Peter picked out a large band-aid, as Peter threw the Spider-Man suit over the shower’s glass screen, flecking droplets of water everywhere. And then followed Peter’s gaze as he looked down to his left flank, and Quentin finally noticed the band-aids, stained red, covering well over half the boy’s left waist, one on the front, one on the back.

“Shit…”

Peter glanced up at him, gaze dropping down once before meeting Quentin’s eyes again, somehow more infuriated than before. “Do you mind?”

Quentin looked up into his eyes, down again to the wound, up again, and then it clicked. Frankly, he did not want to end up smashed into the ground again, and so the man hastily left Peter to do whatever he needed. Stumbling back to his bed, Quentin plopped down, a second too late to remember his own injuries. He might need to make an appointment at the doctor after this.

From where he sat, he could also just make out part of the mirror, and the moving reflection in it. Peter was looking down at his wound, poking and patting around, grimacing occasionally, before he took the edge of the band-aid on his back, and with a couple of quick breaths yanked. Quentin didn’t even register what the kid was doing before Peter inevitably let out a pained hiss.

Bracing on the sink, Peter just stood breathing, eyes shut. Quentin winced with him, bile rising in his throat at the sight of the actual wound. It wasn’t even fresh-looking, enhanced healing he guessed, but the exit wound of a bullet was still clearly visible. Quentin knew, he had one himself after all.

Christ, what was he _doing?_ Spider-Man was in his bathroom, cleaning a wound. Quentin spared a glance towards his bedside table, where he knew he had a trump card left lying. Surely, Peter wouldn’t be able to dodge bullets while injured? Yeah, dick move but given their power levels, it might even the odds if need be. The other normally quiet part of Beck now guilted him; what if the bullet wound was Quentin’s doing?

But the drawer was empty. Fuck, he didn’t even want to grab it, just check if it’s there, but what the hell?

“You’re not gonna find it there.”

Quentin whipped around, shocked to find Peter way closer than he thought, leaning on the wall by the bathroom door. It took far too long for the words to click.

“I wasn’t— “

“Shut up.”

Quentin did.

Peter walked over to the wardrobe doors, still in nothing but boxers, soaked Spider-Man suit in hand, and stuck his hand behind the hanging shirts on the left. He searched around for a second, and when he stepped out, Peter held Quentin’s very own 9 mm caliber, a Glock G19. Sorry, his very own _crushed_ 9 mm caliber. The barrel was completely caved and twisted around, trigger snapped off, finger indents still left on the handgrip.

Tossing it on the desk must have Peter noticed his shocked expression, “Had to make sure.”

Mouth agape, Quentin tore his eyes off the not-gun, “Of what?”

“That you didn’t use it.” Peter said, matter of factly, glare momentarily darkening. Right, why on Earth would Peter trust him. Speaking of which—

“Why are you here?”

Peter didn’t answer, just stared, gears turning in his head.

“What _happened_ last night?!” Quentin near yelled. He was getting desperate. To his credit, Peter didn’t flinch, only took a step back when Quentin stood up.

“Unless you want me to deck you again, you’re not gonna come any closer, _Beck_.”

“That was you?”

_— Quentin’s eyes only just adjusted to make out the spider emblem, before a sickening crack echoed through the alley, his head snapping to the side, entire body flying from the sheer force —_

“I think we can agree you deserved it.”

Alright, fair point.

So, they were enhanced punches. No wonder his jaw felt like it nearly snapped off. Actually, that memory now makes perfect sense, Peter would gladly deck him given their history. Quentin should really be glad to even be alive. Berlin, London, then the video…

Quentin had just opened his mouth to try pull out some other clear answer from the kid, when Peter loudly sighed, annoyance clear, and let his eyes wander the ceiling for a moment, before coming back down to the sore excuse of a person standing before him. “Go clean up.” He near whispered.

And with that, he left.

Quentin stayed silent, expecting to hear the front door open, or the balcony window, or the kitchen window, and then see a red and black shape fly out across the cityscape. But none of those happened. Gentle steps moved away from him, in the distance a drawer opened, Peter swore quietly, and kitchen tap turned on for exactly three seconds. Then again after a minute, for four seconds. Only once Quentin was sure nothing else was going on, did he move.

The first aid kit still lay open by the bathroom sink, band-aids thrown on top rather than packed away properly. Quentin knew about three things on medical procedures, and none of them covered broken bones or bruising. Inevitably, he spent a solid couple minutes sitting on the bathtub edge and browsing Healthline, trying to match his own injuries to the pictures shown.

Two Panadols and a couple face washes later, Quentin looked about the same, just with less blood on his lip. Aside from rest and icepacks, a few he had in the fridge, there were no quick cures for the bruises. Symptoms of a broken cheekbone matched the pain in his jaw, and blocked nostrils and pain suggested a broken nose. Great, so he was out a couple hundred. Fucking America and its broken health care system.

Shuffling out of the dirtied jeans, Quentin left them on the floor and went to change. Showering could wait. Just before leaving the closet, he for whatever reason decided to pull out a second pair of sweatpants and the first hoodie that he could reach. Not because he thought Peter would be cold, no, and not because wearing a soaked skin-tight suit must be uncomfortable either.

Talking to the kid while the latter was only in his underwear would be awkward, that’s all.

The living room wasn’t a complete mess, a book or two on the floor, likely knocked over, Quentin’s jacket he vaguely remembered throwing on last night, laying on the couch now, also rather filthy. If it was blood again Quentin might as well throw it out. Never mind the absurd price he paid for it in the first place.

“Done?”

Again, Quentin turned around so fast he might as well have given himself whiplash.

Peter stood leaning against the kitchen countertop, his suit in one hand and a needle in the other. A red thread trailed from the suit to the needle, and Quentin’s tiny sewing kit lay sprawled out on the countertop behind.

“ _Hello?_ Earth to Mysterio?”

“Ha-ha,” Quentin fake laughed, slowly walking closer, “Pretty sure ‘Mysterio’ died in London.”

“Riiight… London...” Peter went back to repairing, stitching quickly with years of practice. Quentin internally face-palmed at himself. Why did he bring that up?

Quentin moved to the opposite end of the counter, feeling that actually approaching Peter would result in him getting thrown through a wall again, a fear that was confirmed when Peter subconsciously, or purposefully, turned to keep the man in his peripheral. Placing the bundle of cleans clothes, Quentin pushed it across to the boy, getting his attention again as a result.

Peter glanced at the old hoodie, then sceptically up at Quentin, and went back to sewing, “What’s that?”

“Uh, clothes. Just until that’s dry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m leaving.” Peter started sewing faster, “This is just a tear too big to swing around with.”

“Well, could you at least explain _something_ to me? Why are you injured? And why the fuck did you sleep in my bed?”

Peter ignored him, and kept sewing, hands moving far too fast for any of the stitches to be proper.

“For fuck’s sake, Parker,” Quentin slammed his hand into the counter, “Did we sleep together or somethi—”

He was answered with a thread ball flung into his face. With a yelp Quentin curled in on himself, one hand bracing himself, other gently covering his aggravated injuries. Why did it have to hit him in the nose, now he was tearing up. If Peter did aim there, then damn, low blow.

“What the fuck?” Peter yelled.

Quentin groaned, “Can you not? I’m still nursing a hangover here.”

“Oh, _sorry_ then,” Now why did that sound sarcastic— “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Quentin quickly went from cradling his face to rubbing at his temples. That little shit.

“Christ, _shut up,_ I just fucking asked a question.”

“Well, excuse me for reacting accordingly to that question!” Peter stopped sewing, and simply stood glaring at him, somehow still looking _down_ on Quentin, emotionally speaking, despite his short height.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think? I wake up, clearly after a night of drinking, with some _twink_ —” And oh did Peter blush instantly at that, “— asleep in my bed, and half my apartment trashed! I didn’t even know it was you until I tried to wake you up!”

“You mean till you tried to drug me?”

“Fine, sure, until I panicked and thought keeping you asleep a bit longer would be a good idea.” By now Quentin was near panting, throat dried up again.

Time passed but they kept staring at one another. The kitchen clock ticked away in the silence, and a couple of birds flew by, their shadows flickering by the window. Quentin was glad to keep up this little staring contest, but then Peter’s expression shifted just a touch, and maybe something akin to pity bloomed behind the glare.

“You seriously don’t remember?” He mumbled, breaking eye contact, “ _Anything?_ ”

“Bits and pieces. “ Quentin had a total of about four memories resurface, and none of them felt connected, “I went to a bar, I think I left alone, and you punched me, and then I pulled—“ His throat closed up, but he pushed through, “I think I pulled your hair…”

Christ, now why was _that_ embarrassing to admit? 

But Peter didn’t pick up on Quentin’s awkward inner monologue, and instead scratched at his head, running a hand through his curls, as if he was surprised as to why someone would pull it. Sighing, Peter suddenly changed, and… relaxed? He dropped his suit on the countertop, stitches unfinished, and reached forward to grab the offered clothing.

“Fine,” Peter suddenly sounded a lot more defeated, “I’ll talk you through what happened.”

**Author's Note:**

> you don't know how much i've had to read up on hangovers and bruises and broken bones for this one chapter... humans are fragile as fuck
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated here! and please correct any grammar/spelling errors, i will not be offended :)


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